


Christmas

by serenityofinsanity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mild Smut, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 12:12:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityofinsanity/pseuds/serenityofinsanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is name-calling, Christmas leftovers, and a bed that's just a bit too small.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing smut~

Sherlock hated Christmas. He hated the fake smiles of his extended family, he hated the ridiculous amounts of food, he hated having to be lectured about his own life, and most of all, he hated the sickly sweet socks and jumpers that everyone thought perfectly appropriate for an eighteen year old boy. That was why, as soon as his parents would allow, he packed a bag and headed straight for John Watson's house, where he could expect genuine smiles, lazy mornings, and some well-earned silence.

When John answered the door, Sherlock practically jumped on him, luggage and courtesy and relatives be damned. He hadn't seen him properly in over three months, and kissing John was one of the few thoughts that had gotten him through it.

“ _Christ_ , Sherlock,” John gasped, half-laughing as the younger boy pulled their mouths together again. “Good to see you too.”

“Missed you,” Sherlock murmured, by way of explanation. He turned his head into the crook of John's neck and inhaled deeply, feeling the tension drain out of him.

“Did you just _smell_ me?” John asked, managing to sound amused and incredulous at the same time.

Sherlock hummed against his skin. “Obviously,” he said, voice muffled.

“John, who's there?” a voice called from the living room. It was his (inebriated) mother, by the sound of it.

“It's Sherlock, mum. He's staying over for a few days. That alright?”

There was a pause before her voice came wavering through the walls again. “Of course, sweetie, just make sure you clean up your messes.”

Sherlock smiled as he felt John's neck heat up. He doubted she had intended the double meaning, but John certainly hadn't missed it.

“Shut up, you git,” John said, feeling him smile against his neck. Sherlock pulled back for the sole purpose of kissing the blush off his face.

His stomach chose that exact moment to loudly protest the fact that it had been empty for the past two days. John chuckled, surprisingly undisturbed about Sherlock's eating habits, and said “We'll get some food, and then we can go upstairs.” Sherlock grumbled, but followed him into the kitchen, where they assembled an amalgamation of Christmas leftovers and anything else they could find that Sherlock didn't turn his nose up at. Then, they grabbed Sherlock's luggage and set up camp in John's room.

Unfortunately, his bed wasn't nearly large enough to accommodate another gangly teenager, so Sherlock insisted on sleeping on the floor (“Don't be ridiculous, John, sleeping on the floor will make your shoulder sore, besides which it's unlikely I'll be sleeping at all.”)

They spent the remainder of the afternoon sprawled out on John's bed, slowly chipping away at their snacks, and exchanging lazy kisses and horror stories about various relatives. It was dark before they knew it, and John didn't realize how late it actually was until he heard his mother's weary footsteps coming up the stairs. If _she_ was going to bed, it had to be well past midnight. To his relief, she bypassed his room entirely, opting instead for the immediate comfort of her own bed, where she would likely stay until at least noon the next day.

It was at that point that John started yawning in the middle of his sentences, his eyelids growing heavy, and Sherlock demanded he go to sleep, claiming he found it irritating. So they cleaned up the snacks (John cleaned up the snacks) and Sherlock settled himself on top of the slightly disheveled sleeping bag, clasping his hands under his chin. They said their good nights, and John feel asleep almost immediately.

For three hours, Sherlock was left to wander the halls of his own mind. He listened to John breathing in the dark, hearing every twitch and shuffle. It was oddly comforting, hearing the evidence of warmth and life so close by.

_Sentiment._

He noticed a sudden change in John's breathing pattern and movements. Both were elevated, slightly erratic, and a quiet whimper confirmed his suspicions. John was having a nightmare. An unexpected jolt of sympathy surprised him as John whimpered again, helpless against the chaos of his subconscious. He could practically feel the sentiment clouding and condensing in his mind, making him sick at the thought of John's distress. He stood up, seeking to ease his discomfort however he could. 

He padded over to the side of John's bed, whispering his name. In the gloom, he could just barely make out the crease between John's eyes. He cupped the side of his face, and John leaned into his palm, but didn't wake up. Sherlock bent over and pressed his mouth to John's ear. “John, it's fine,” he whispered, pulling back as John twisted in the sheets. “Wake up, it's just a dream. You're fine." 

John whined, disregarding Sherlock's attempts to placate him. Sherlock huffed. His chest felt strange and hollow. Without thinking, he stripped down to his pants and crossed to the other side of the bed, where there was a bit more space. He pulled back the sheets and squeezed into the small gap, pressing himself against the line of John's body. He carefully turned John towards him, noting the fretful frown that painted his expressive face. 

“John,” he said, just above a whisper. He smoothed a hand across his shoulders, feeling him tense in the throes of his dream. “John, wake up. You're fine, you're okay.” He nuzzled the crease between his eyebrows and kept rubbing his back. “I'm right here, John.” 

Finally, John started to wake up. He whined softly, tilting his chin, eyebrows furrowed, as if seeking contact. Sherlock hummed and ducked his head down to give him a quick, solid kiss. He tucked John's head under his chin and cupped the back of his neck in a parody of protection against the onslaught of dreams. His short hair and uneven breaths tickled Sherlock's neck, and his hand came up to rest against Sherlock's bare chest. It took eleven seconds for his breathing to even out and deepen, and Sherlock knew he was lost to his subconscious once again. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile as John snuffled against his skin. 

Sherlock found himself relaxing unintentionally into the cramped space on the bed. His breathing synchronized with John's, and it was absurdly easy to drift off into the realm of dreams when he was surrounded by the smell of sleep and cheap shampoo and something that was inherently John. 

When John woke up, he promptly decided never to leave his bed again. He was quite warm, albeit a bit cramped, cocooned as he was in an impossible tangle of pale-skinned limbs, wrinkled sheets, and Sherlock-smell. The sun that was trying to invade his bedroom through worn curtains seemed entirely too daunting to face at the moment. Besides which, from what he could tell, Sherlock was actually sleeping, and he'd be damned if he was going to ruin that kind of miracle. 

It took him half a second to recall why Sherlock was crammed into his bed in the first place, but then the nightmare came back to him in full force. 

There was no rhyme or reason to the dream. He had been standing in the middle of a field – rugby, by the look of it – but it was deserted. There was a dark figure lying in the grass at his feet, and he realized with a jolt that it was Sherlock. He was wearing black trousers that made his pale skin look practically deathly, and he was staring at John with eyes that reflected the cloudy sky above them. 

Black ink began to trickle down from Sherlock's hairline, bleeding down his face and neck, coating his lips and mouth, but he didn't seem bothered by it. Panic coiled in John's stomach as the foul liquid flowed further, staining Sherlock's collarbones, chest, and stomach. His steely gray eyes never left John's, and somehow, he got the feeling that this was all part of the plan, that Sherlock meant for this to happen. He knelt by Sherlock's side, unsure of how to help, or if he should even be helping. Sherlock lifted himself up on his elbows and pressed his stained lips to John's ear. 

“John, it's fine, you're fine,” he said, and John twisted away, afraid of the implications of those words. He didn't want to be fine if Sherlock wasn't. 

Suddenly, without warning, Sherlock bled into the ground, not leaving so much as a hint behind that he had existed in the first place, and when John opened his eyes to darkness and a hand on his back, he was much too close to crying. But then Sherlock's lips found his in the dark, and the remaining dregs of sleep managed to claim him once again, surrounded as he was by the warmth and smell of Sherlock. 

John sighed, trying to banish the dream from his mind and reclaim the blissful comfort he had found a few moments ago. It was at that point that the hand on his back twitched, and when John looked up, his gaze was matched by two bright blue eyes, with hardly a hint of drowsiness clouding them. Sherlock seemed to enter consciousness the same way he did everything else – headfirst, and all at once. 

“I can't believe you slept,” John said. Sometimes he forgot that Sherlock actually had to do such lowly, human things. 

“You've been awake for at least twelve minutes, maybe longer. Why didn't you get up, or wake me?” 

“I'm comfortable, berk. Haven't you ever heard of a lie-in?” 

Sherlock smirked and pulled John a bit closer in the circle of his arms. “How terribly domestic.” 

An easy silence fell between them, measured by their synchronized breathing, chests brushing at every inhale. Sherlock nuzzled the side of his head, and John could feel that the corners of his lips were turned down slightly. 

“I can hear you thinking,” John said. He was no detective, but he had a good idea of what was occupying that brain of his. Christmas vacation only lasted so long, and after that, there would be two hours of space and some less-than-enthusiastic parents (on Sherlock's part) separating them, at least for the next six months. 

“What happened in your nightmare?” Sherlock asked, and John knew him well enough to know when the subject was being purposefully diverted. There was no harm in humouring him, though, so he summarized the dream, trying to distance himself and stick to the facts. Sherlock immediately started rattling off possible causes of nightmares, and ruling them out for various reasons. John had a sneaking suspicion that he was trying to fill the air. Avoiding silence, and the thoughts it would bring. But his plan seemed to have backfired when he blurted out “Of course there is the possibility of separation anxiety, but – ” 

He cut himself off, as if surprised by his own words, and shut his mouth, jaw tensing. 

“Sherlock...” 

“No, John, I don't want to talk about it,” Sherlock said. He stared resolutely at the top of John's head. John sighed, and nudged his head into the hollow of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock rested his chin on top of his head, and John almost smiled, because as frigid as he could be, Sherlock couldn't resist a warm body. 

“Fine,” John whispered, and he swore he felt Sherlock shiver. “We don't have to talk about it.” 

They stayed silent for six heartbeats before Sherlock spoke again, agitation clear in his voice. “It's so _irrational_. It doesn't matter that you're here now, and I can see you and hear you and touch you. All I can think about is when you _won't_ be here, and I _won't_ be able to do those things. And you're obviously not leaving for good, but it feels as though you are. It doesn't make any _sense._ ” The last word hissed through clenched teeth, his fist tensing against John's back. 

“That is the most unromantic, romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” John said, and leaned forward to give him a chaste kiss on the neck. “Besides,” he said, kissing him again, “Since when have we ever been rational?” 

Sherlock hummed in agreement, sending minuscule vibrations through the tip of John's nose. John dipped his head down to taste Sherlock's pulse, and Sherlock tipped his chin up just slightly in invitation. 

The atmosphere in the room shifted as John cupped the back of Sherlock's neck, exploring curves and sinews with his mouth. Sherlock's slender fingers slid through John's hair, grazing his scalp. His breath hitched as John sucked a bruise on his collarbone. Sherlock pulled him up to kiss him, and suddenly they were desperate, tongues brushing, hands scrabbling, hardly pausing to breathe. John nudged a knee between his thighs, and Sherlock scratched his fingers across John's lower back, just above his pajama pants. John kissed along his jaw, moving up to mouth at the spot just below his ear. Sherlock hissed, breath hot against the side of John's face. 

“What do you want, Sherlock?” 

“I just – I just want – ” Sherlock cut himself off, opting instead to wrap his legs around John and slide their hips together, his head thrown back. John gasped into Sherlock's hair. 

Who was he to deny that kind of request? 

John pulled back to look at him. His cheeks were flushed, eyes lidded, lips turned up in an almost-sly smile, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to him. 

Looking at Sherlock, mostly naked and lying in his bed, he had the sudden urge to kiss every inch of that pale, infuriatingly lanky body. And he did. 

He kissed from eyes and ears, to lips and chin and cheeks, to neck and shoulders, pectorals, belly button and armpits, elbows and hips (and hips), ribs, knees and feet and thighs and mouth mouth mouth mouth and Sherlock whimpered like it just wasn't enough. 

So John gave him enough. He gave him more, he gave him _everything_ , and Sherlock moaned and writhed and scratched up his back like he couldn't get close enough. John thought about his mother, one room over, but then Sherlock arched his back and all that mattered was the slick of sweat and the smell of sex and the taste of his name on Sherlock's tongue. 

John tensed and Sherlock choked out a moan and it was over much too quickly, the pair of them slumping onto cheap, damp linen. 

John nuzzled Sherlock's chest as they caught their breath, and then gently disentangled himself. He fumbled on his nightstand for tissues, and wiped them off as best as he could. He flopped down on his stomach, next to Sherlock, one arm dangling off the narrow mattress. The other arm curved around Sherlock's shoulder, fingers stroking the curls at the back of his head. His back tingled where Sherlock had scratched him. 

Sherlock leaned into his touch, rumbling deep in his throat. 

“You're definitely a cat,” John said. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 

“And what would give you that idea?” 

John huffed. “You certainly scratch like one.” 

That earned him a self-satisfied smirk. “I don't hear you complaining.” 

“Maybe I'm not.” 

Sherlock reached out to trace the raised pink lines decorating his back. John shivered. They were already beginning to fade. Sherlock might have to replace them sooner than he thought. 

It was silent for a moment. 

“John, if you have something to say, say it.” 

John blushed, clearing his throat. “Can't keep anything from you, can I,” he muttered. 

“No.” 

“Right, well.” John shifted, suddenly serious. “Sherlock, I don't expect you to say anything back, but I just thought you should know – I just thought you should know that I – ” 

“Don't say it,” Sherlock said, and John shut his mouth. “Don't say it,” he said again, even though he hated repeating himself. And John didn't say it. He just stared and his lip twitched and he looked a bit hurt (not good), and dear God, were his eyes wet? 

Without thinking, Sherlock leaned forward and pushed against his mouth, pushed so that he would forget, pushed so hard that he could feel the unspoken words pressed against his tongue. John tightened his grip in Sherlock's hair and pushed back. 

“Idiot,” Sherlock gasped between kisses. “You don't have to say it.” John had already told him, again and again, saying it in smiles and tracing it on his ribs and breathing it into his mouth. 

Sherlock kissed him until he stopped looking hurt and loosened his grip on Sherlock's hair, and then he kissed him until he sighed and relaxed into the bed, and then he kissed him until he laughed and told him to stop kissing him and go to sleep, you git. So Sherlock tucked his head into John's neck, still lying half on top of him. And even though it was ridiculous to sleep so much in one day, he found himself drifting off, wondering what in the world he was going to do about John Watson.


End file.
